


And Flowers Mark the Hour

by kototyph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Episode Tag, Gen, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comment!fic for euclase's amazing WIP art. "[This is a] request someone gave me of dean pretending to be a doctor in order to get a better look at amnesia!cas (with plans to rescue him, of course)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Und Blumen bezeichnen die Stunde (Übersetzung)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972421) by [lumidaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumidaub/pseuds/lumidaub)



> Art by [euclase](http://euclase.deviantart.com/). The finished piece is [here](http://spn-kototyph.tumblr.com/post/17751890030/euclase-banished-drawn-in-ps-by-request) (the artist appears to have deleted it off her blog?)

They’ve brought in another doctor, and when the man stops and stares at him he ducks his head and tries not to look as cold and hopeless and alone as he feels.

It’s been like this for weeks—months? He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Some of the inmates keep calendars, little chicken-scratch marks in their diaries or on their walls. He doesn’t keep journals, doesn’t draw, doesn’t speak at all. He sits on a bench in the partly dead, partly wild garden and watches the flowers grow. He has been here as long as it takes delphinium to bloom and wither, and the only thing that changes are the faces. Even their long white coats are all the same.

“Hey,” the new doctor says, from much closer than he was expecting, and he can’t stop the full-body flinch when the man reaches for him.

The man immediately lets his arm fall, keeping his hands loose and open at his sides. “Hey,” he says again, much more softly. “It’s okay. I’m not… I won’t hurt you.” The man’s eyes, when he risks a fearful glance upward, are kind.

“I’m Dr. Tyler,” the man says quietly, voice low. “This is my colleague, Dr. Perry.” The other doctor is lurking in the doorway, very tall and looking oddly shell-shocked. He seems hesitant to step any further into the room; there have been doctors who found his persistent silence and stare unnerving, but usually it takes time to develop aversion like that.

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to start with a physical exam,” Dr. Tyler is saying, and he drops his eyes again. “Can I touch you?”

There’s so much sadness in the doctor's eyes, in his voice and bleeding hearts don’t last long in the asylum. He doesn’t want to be touched, doesn’t like being touched, but sadness is better than pity and it’s nice to be asked, instead of sedated and only half-feeling strangers’ hands on his skin.

He finally gives a curt nod, and Dr. Tyler edges forward very, very slowly like he can sense exactly how tightly-wound his patient is.

“Would you take off your shirt?”

It’s huge on him, as are the drawstring pants, both the same shade of slightly off-white. He pulls it up, off, and is instantly even colder. He shivers.

The doctor moves again, bending and reaching for the arm he has wrapped around his stomach, and his nerves fail him just as the surreally warm fingertips brush the back of his hand. He starts back, and his heal catches on the dragging cuffs of the pants.  
He stumbles, and the instinct to find support momentarily wins out over personal distaste. He reaches out, and his right hand falls squarely on the doctor’s left shoulder.

It’s no more than a flash, a split-second of _weary-bloody-triumph-love_ , but it burns like fire, spikes like lightening and he closes his hand as tightly as he can on that wing of bone, feeling like he has, at last, found an anchor, a point of origin, ground zero.

“I… know you,” he whispers. They are the first words he’s said aloud since the delphinium blossomed, royal purple and pregnant with the promise of spring.

Dr. Tyler makes a small, shocked sound.

“I do,” he says, more certain than he’s been of anything.

“You do,” the man says brokenly. “ _Cas._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyler and Perry are the aliases Dean and Sam use in “Yellow Fever”.
> 
> Original post [here](http://kototyph.tumblr.com/post/17650431496/euclase-this-is-kind-of-a-total-mess-right-now).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comment!fic for petite-madame's amazing art. "Inspired by the spoiler photo recently posted by Misha on his Twitter. I wish a scene like this one would happen \o/".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [petite-madame](http://petite-madame.tumblr.com/). The finished piece is [here](http://petite-madame.tumblr.com/post/17317286958/hi-cas-inspired-by-the-spoiler-photo-recently).

“James Novak,” the director of the Winding Aspens facility reads aloud, glasses perched low on his broad red nose. “Reported missing in March of 2008. Scheduled to begin psychiatric treatment in April of 2008 with one Dr. Allencourt, never attended… symptomatic of classic schizophrenia.”

The director flips back to the grainy headshot stapled to the front of the manila folder, pursing his lips. Jimmy—and it is discernibly Jimmy, in that photo— looks confused but happy. “James Novak, huh?” The director looks up at Dean and Sam, seated across the massive oak desk. “Well, this certainly looks like our boy, Doctor—?”

“Perry,” Sam supplies easily, smiling despite the desperate tension Dean can see tightening his shoulders and stiffening his back. “My colleague Dr. Tyler and I have recently taken over Dr. Allencourt’s practice.” It was a lie they’d worked out, during the long drive from Lincoln to Park City. “His family’s been looking for him a long time, sir. We’d just like the chance to make an i.d. if possible.”

The director clucks his tongue, closes the folder. “Well, I’ve got no objections. But Winding Aspens is long way from—” he glances back at the file. “Pontiac, Illinois. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

When Dean first sees Patient №107 (visual and auditory hallucinations, delusions and various thought disorders), he is standing barefoot in the middle of an empty whitewashed room, staring at the floor as though he can see through it. He’s so thin the bones of his wrists and collar strain against the skin, eyes sunken and face skull-like.

“Holy…” Sam whispers behind him, and stops right there at the door. Dean keeps going. If this is him, then there is nothing in heaven above or hell below that could stop Dean now.

* * *

Castiel won’t let go of Dean.

The grip of his fingers is nothing inhuman, but Dean can already feel bone-deep bruises setting in as Castiel stares wordlessly up at him, his hand the only point of contact between them. “Cas, it’s okay,” he soothes as voices in the corridor outside get louder. “It’s okay, everything’s okay. We’re fine,” he says to the orderly that pushes past Sam and hurries to his side.

Another orderly appears behind the first, and they gently pry Castiel from him even as Dean is protesting, “No, really, it’s fine! We were just—”

“Don’t worry, doctor, we’ll take care of him,” one matronly woman assures him, and they herd the angel out into the hallway. Castiel moves forward obediently, but he shrinks away from physical contact with them and keeps glancing back at Dean. His frightened expression fucking breaks Dean’s heart.

Sam claps a hand on his arm when Dean starts after him. “Dr. Tyler, we should start on those transfer papers, don’t you think?”

Castiel disappears around a corner and Dean turns to glare at Sam, but the director is there at his elbow and the man’s eyebrows are climbing to his hairline. “Remarkable,” he murmurs.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. New therapeutic techniques and stuff. Anyway, transfer papers?”

* * *

It’s an agonizingly long time before Dean finds himself in front of Room 2553, where Patient №107 has been living for the last eight months. The anticipation is even worse now; something in Dean is terrified that in the half hour they spent dicking around with paperwork and fake licenses Castiel will have disappeared. It’s hard to believe that they found him. It’s hard to hope.

The angel is facing away from him, sitting on a sterile white bed and staring towards the window. Warm slices of late afternoon sunlight fall across the walls and floor.

Dean pauses for a moment, unsure. “… Cas?”

Castiel looks over his shoulder, eyes dull and clouded.

“He’s just had his meds, and a mild sedative,” says the same motherly orderly, bustling around with a tray and empty cups. “He should be nice and quiet for you now.”

His immediate response is anger, because now Castiel doesn’t look like he knows what planet he’s on, let alone who Dean is. Instead of telling her where she can shove her sedatives, Dean bites his lip and comes around the bed. Castiel is still looking blankly at him, tilting his head in an achingly familiar way when Dean kneels down in front of him.

“First stop, burgers and fries,” he says softly. “I promise, Cas.”

In the fading light, Dean thinks he sees a flicker of… something. It’s there and gone too quickly to be identified, but he grins in response and the angel, his angel gives him a small, tentative smile back, and it’s enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post [here](http://kototyph.tumblr.com/post/17756632113/petite-madame-hi-cas-inspired-by-the-spoiler).


End file.
